


Castle in the Sky

by MildredMost



Category: The Alienist (TV)
Genre: Codependency, First Love, Guardian-Ward Relationship, Guilt, Jealousy, M/M, Manipulation, Pining, Prostitution, Repression, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:14:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25452220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MildredMost/pseuds/MildredMost
Summary: When Mr John Moore takes Joseph in as his ward, he assumes there will be certain duties. He was a boy-whore after all. But Mr Moore tries to save him instead.
Relationships: John Moore/Joseph (The Alienist TV)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54
Collections: Rare Male Slash Exchange 2020





	Castle in the Sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [summerdayghost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerdayghost/gifts).



**Joseph**

When Dr Kreizler had first taken Joseph from his Institute to Mr Moore’s house, he’d left Joseph outside a while with Stevie.

Joseph eyed him warily. He looked like the kind of kid who might throw a punch, or worse. 

“You’re that kid who used to work at Paresis Hall, ain’t you?” Stevie said. “The one John Beecham took.”

Joseph nodded.

“How come you didn’t get killed?” Stevie asked bluntly. “You fight the guy?”

Joseph shook his head. “I was out cold,” he said. “He came at me with a knife but I don’t remember after that. Mr Moore was the one who stopped him.”

Stevie nodded, still examining Joseph. “Think I’d have gone crazy if that happened to me,” he said.

“Maybe I am crazy,” said Joseph, and Stevie laughed. He patted his pockets and pulled out a couple of cigarettes. He held one out to Joseph who pocketed it.

“Guess Mr Moore’s taking you in then,” Stevie said. “Didn’t you like the Institute?”

He’d hated the Institute; had felt like he was being smothered. Yeah, his nightmares had gotten better and it sure had been nice not to be hungry all the time, but aside from that he had struggled. He didn’t miss the work, but he missed the other Paresis Hall girls - and the freedom.

“It was alright. I wasn’t used to all the rules,” he said, sensing Stevie might bristle with loyalty to Dr Kreizler if he was too honest.

“Then you got lucky. Don’t think Mr Moore is much of one for rules,” Stevie said with a grin, blowing out a plume of smoke.

That rang true enough. If you truly cared about rules, you wouldn’t keep a boy-whore. It was pretty unusual, Joseph thought, to do it in his own home. He’d have expected to be kept somewhere else, somewhere private. Still the girls at Paresis would be jealous as hell if they knew how he’d landed.

“Joseph,” Dr Kreizler called, appearing in the doorway. “Come along in please.”

Joseph followed the Doctor into the elegant hall of Mr Moore’s house.

And there was Mr Moore.

Joseph’s heart thudded as he looked at the face of the man who had saved his life. The memory was so confused now, like his own mind didn’t want him to think about it and hid things from him when he tried to remember. He only remembered things in flashes; the knife pressed to his groin, the whispered threats from Beecham. And the relief; the amazing, wonderful sound of Mr Moore’s voice telling him he was safe, and Mr Moore’s arms wrapping around him, stroking his back, soothing him. As piss-sodden and stinking and terrified as he’d been, Mr Moore had picked him up and carried him gently to safety, like he was something that mattered. 

Mr Moore gave him a small smile.

“Joseph, you’ve grown,” he said. “How old are you now?”

Joseph smiled back, his nerves ebbing for now. “Fifteen, pretty much,” he said, though it was something of a guess. Mr Moore didn’t look much different to what Joseph remembered a year or so ago. Still looked rich as hell and handsome with it, but he had a kind, open face and that had been what Joseph had remembered most. 

“A year with regular meals works wonders,” Dr Kriezler said. “And he has come on in every way, John. He reads very well now.”

“Ah yes,” Mr Moore said, with another smile at Joseph. He turned back to the Doctor. “Laszlo, I’ve appointed a tutor as you suggested and…”

Joseph stopped listening and looked around the room instead. Mr Moore had inherited the place from his grandmother not long ago Dr Kreizler had told him, and it still had a fussy look to it, with all the frills and ornaments. Mr Moore was still in mourning, wearing black with none of his usual fancy waistcoats or ties. 

Joseph sighed quietly. He didn’t get all this talk of studying. Sure, if Mr Moore meant to take him around with him then he’d need to sound a little educated, but who ever took their kept boy around with them? Not anyone Joseph had ever heard of. Maybe it would be for a kind of bed-play or something, like the guy who used to read the bible to Joseph as Joseph sat in his lap.

“Joseph?” Mr Moore said, and Joseph blinked at him. 

“Annabelle will show you your room,” Mr Moore said, indicating his maid. “Go ahead and settle in. And be ready at six, won’t you.”

“Yes sir,” Joseph said, relaxing. He’d be ready.

Annabelle led him up some stairs and down a polished, lavender scented hallway to a quiet room at the back of the house.

As Joseph looked around it, he wondered what kind of thing Mr Moore was into. The time he went with Sally she said he just passed out. He didn’t seem the type for the rough stuff – not the physical kind anyway. Maybe he liked to be yelled at or humiliated. Joseph wasn’t so good at that. He most likely didn’t want him to be Bernadette, though a lot of guys had; they liked to play-act they were fucking a girl.

 _Be ready at six_. Well alright. Joseph looked around the room. The maid had brought water in a patterned jug, though Joseph was pretty clean anyway. He lifted the bar of soap, so fine and clear you could see through it, and held it to his nose. Scented too. He opened the large wooden wardrobe door a crack. No dresses, so that was that decided. There was a suit of clothes though, and he wondered if he should put it on so Mr Moore could undress him, for some customers liked to do that. But it was real nice and brand new, and Joseph didn’t want to mess it up.

In the end he just stripped and washed everywhere, then lay back on the bed and waited. He hoped Mr Moore would bring some oil, because it’d been so long since he’d been fucked he’d need it. He stroked himself a little just in case.

Six o’clock came and went, but no one came. The room was stuffy, but Joseph hadn’t been able to have a bedroom window open since John Beecham had kidnapped and almost murdered him. He lay back on the pillows and put his hands behind his head. The bed linen was soft as silk and smelled of flowers, and he closed his eyes a moment as the clock chimed the quarter hour.

A soft tap came at the door.

“Come in,” Joseph said, sitting up. His nerves were back again.

The door swung open.

“Joseph,” Mr Moore said, eyes wide. He came into the room and slammed the door shut behind him. “What on earth are you doing?” He turned away quickly and pulled open the wardrobe door. Grabbing the suit of clothes and not quite looking at Joseph, he laid it on the bed.

“You…you want me to wear that Mr Moore?” Joseph said, trying to sound flirty, though he’d almost forgotten how. “You gonna help me into it?”

“Why would I…” Mr Moore turned to him sharply. Joseph looked up at him through lowered lashes, though his heart was beating a tattoo. Mr Moore went darkly red.

“Joseph, Good Lord _no._ That…this isn’t…” he spluttered into silence. He rubbed a hand across his face. “This is my fault. Please Joseph, get dressed. Dinner is ready. We’ll eat and then we’ll talk.”

“Yes Mr Moore,” Joseph said, stricken. He’d done something wrong but couldn’t quite figure out what. He grabbed the suit and held it over himself to hide his nakedness, feeling stupid.

Mr Moore gave a quick nod, not quite looking at him, and left the room.

**John**

John left Joseph’s room as flustered as he’d ever been in his life. To think that the child had assumed John had wanted him for… _that_.

Perhaps this was all a terrible mistake. Laszlo had warned him that the boy’s wounds ran deep – not just from his ordeal at the hands of a murderer, but from everything which had preceded that moment. Joseph had been unable to tell Laszlo just how long he’d been working on the streets or in whore houses, or even how old he really was. Either way there had been years of homelessness, hunger and of selling himself that had ended in him being the vulnerable prey of a predator like John Beecham.

And John Schyler Moore had taken it upon himself to solve the boy’s problems by throwing some money around. He shook his head. A fine hand he and Laszlo had already made of things, failing to explain to Joseph why he was being taken into his home in the first place.

He looked up as Joseph entered the room, looking miserable.

The new suit fitted him well. He’d grown into a fine-looking boy, John thought to himself. First time John had seen him he’d been a skinny little wretch in an ill-fitting dress, his face all painted up for customers, and his thick curly hair hidden by a grotesque wig.

He’d grown about four solid inches since then, and had those gangly, coltish limbs so many boys of his age had. He’d lost the pinched, hungry look and the sallow pallor of too much drink and not enough fresh air. However miserable his current expression was, his face had a healthy colour and his eyes were bright. Laszlo had certainly cared for him this past year or so.

“Sit down Joseph,” he said. “This is a favourite dinner of mine and I’d like to know what you think.”

Joseph stayed where he was. “Mr Moore,” he said. “What did I do wrong? Is it something different you want? I can do it, you just have to tell me.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” John said. “Now, please sit down. Aren’t you hungry?”

Joseph looked at him, silent. Mr Moore sighed, then put down his napkin.

“Perhaps a quick turn in the garden before dinner then,” he said, standing up. He felt Joseph follow him.

“This is real pretty Mr Moore,” Joseph said as they stepped outside.

Joseph was right. John’s Grandmother had loved her garden. The flower beds bloomed most of the year, and the roses which climbed the pergola were beautifully fragrant. John led them in there and gestured that Joseph sit. Joseph obeyed, looking up at him with his wide blue eyes.

“You haven’t done a thing wrong, Joseph,” John said. “I’m not angry or disappointed with you. I am however infuriated with myself.”

“I don’t understand,” Joseph said.

“No, and that’s my fault too, “ John said. “I think you may have got the wrong impression of why Dr Kriezler brought you here. I consider you my ward. I would like you to think of me as more of…of a father to you.” He watched Joseph’s face closely.

“You mean…” Joseph frowned. “I should call you ‘father’ when we’re in bed and stuff? Sure, I can do that. Some of my old customers liked that too, but that was more when I was Bernadette.”

“Good lord, no!” John exploded.

Joseph stared at him.

“I am not going to be taking you to bed,” John said quietly but intensely. “I want to be quite clear on that point. I have taken you into my protection, as a young man whom I wish to help. I want to educate you and give you a future. You are not to be my…” he waved a hand, not quite able to say it.

“Your kept boy,” Joseph said. He looked lost and confused. “So, you don’t want me for that? Not at all?”

“Is that what _you_ wanted?” John said incredulously.

Joseph shrugged, and John’s stomach turned over. He fought down an urge to demand how he could want such a thing, remembering Laszlo’s warnings on the topic. That Joseph might be inappropriate, that John would have to be firm if he was and not judgmental.

“So why am I here then?” Joseph asked.

“Since I rescued you, I’ve felt a certain sense of responsibility towards you,” John said. “I had a brother you see. He died, and it could have been prevented. You make me think of him.”

Joseph nodded, the little frown back on his face.

“Come, then. Let us go back to dinner,” John said.

**Joseph**

Two years on Joseph was seventeen, half a head taller than Mr Moore, and felt like he’d had enough education to last a lifetime.

Mr Moore had treated him like a toy that might break at first. He ordered special meals to ‘nourish’ Joseph, even though Joseph would happily eat his way through anything put in front of him. Only rich people who didn’t understand the feeling of an empty stomach would worry about whether their meal was going to _nourish_ them. But Joseph had liked having Mr Moore’s complete attention.

Mr Moore spent a fortune on clothes for Joseph too – a wardrobe full of them – and Joseph guessed the meals had worked for he kept growing out of everything. Seemed like he was always at the tailor getting his pants lengthened or being measured for a new coat. Joseph had thought being rich meant you sat round all day being brought things and drinking champagne. But seemed like all he did was keep appointments, or work with his tutor or make social calls with Mr Moore. Or if he wasn’t doing that, there was horseback riding or tennis lessons, and a never-ending round of culture.

What Joseph had tried to offer Mr Moore that first night had never been mentioned again. Didn’t mean Joseph didn’t think about it. He thought about it all the damn time.

He just wanted to be _touched_. He wanted to feel the graze of stubble on his skin, a hard dick against his hand or in his mouth, pushing into his body. He’d gone from being touched all the time by anyone who wanted to, to never being touched at _all._

He’d thought about taking some of his allowance and going to a whorehouse, but he didn’t want a girl, he knew that much. And he didn’t want some poor kid who would hate it and despise him. He wanted a man. A full grown man who knew how to fuck. He burned all over thinking about it. And Mr Moore would fuck him so good, he knew it. Tender and strong at the same time.

Joseph sighed deeply and straightened his bowtie in the glass. They were headed to the opera tonight and no amount of education had ever made one of those interesting to sit through. But Mr Moore was determined that Joseph should not be denied a single cultural opportunity, however much he complained. And he’d definitely complained. Still, he hadn’t had to go to the opera since the spring and it was fall now, and his new suit looked real good. That was something.

And at least Mr Moore usually loosened up and drank a glass of champagne at the opera. Made him more fun. More…friendly. Last time he’d called Joseph “my boy” and sat with an arm around his shoulders all the way home in the carriage. Joseph had to go straight to his room when they got back and push his hand inside his pants, wrapping it tight around his dick. He’d come in less than a minute, so hard he’d shot over his shirtfront before slumping breathlessly to the floor.

God, that was just sad.

Joseph stood back from the glass and sighed again. He smoothed his hair one more time before going to look for his guardian.

**John**

John had poured himself two fingers of bourbon and was debating whether to drink it.

His drinking had got worse again of late, and he knew why. The problem with bourbon was that it both subdued the inexpressible thoughts he’d been having, whilst lowering his inhibition about expressing them. A dilemma indeed.

The best thing to do would be to consult Laszlo – without giving too much away of course. But that would drive Laszlo quite wild with curiosity, and John could not even entertain the idea that Laszlo might guess who John’s worrying thoughts were really about. 

“Mr Moore?” Joseph came into the room, and John looked up from his contemplation of the glass to be hit right between the eyes by the thing that was troubling him.

“Joseph,” he said, and it came out all wrong; breathy and choked. He swallowed the contents of his glass quickly, then coughed.

“Thirsty?” Joseph said, raising an eyebrow, and John smiled weakly at him.

Good lord, the boy looked devastating. He’d seen him dressed for the opera before of course, but not for a long while. And he’d known Joseph had grown, though it hadn’t prepared him for this. He’d being passing the courts where Joseph received his tennis instruction a few weeks ago, and had stopped by to watch. It had taken him almost a full minute to realise the man he was watching with the broad shoulders and well-muscled arms, was actually his seventeen-year-old ward. He’d realised with a sickening lurch that Joseph was no longer a child, but almost a man.

And that had been the beginning.

“Pour me one, Mr Moore,” Joseph said, perching on the arm of one of the heavy leather armchairs. He crossed his legs and looked up at John. John’s fingers itched for his sketchpad.

“I ought to paint you,” he said. “You look like an illustration from a fashion plate.”

He watched as a flush rose up Joseph’s face and then turned quickly to the decanter, wishing he could bite his tongue off.

“I’ll pour you a small one,” he said, pouring the drink. He shouldn’t be doing any such thing, but he found it hard to resist Joseph. Yet, he was almost the age his own younger brother had begun to go off the rails. He must make sure to watch Joseph closely.

“Here. Seeing as you agreed to accompany me to the opera with such grace.”

He turned to hand the drink to Joseph, who still looked a little pink. It suited him, John thought. He wondered what else might make him blush.

_No, enough._

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Joseph said. “I was tired.”

John shook his head. “I understand it must be a bore to accompany an old man such as myself to these things,” he said a little too heartily. “I used to balk at taking Grandmother everywhere when I was your age. Perhaps I shall look at introducing you to a few young people. Nice young people.”

“You’re not old Mr Moore,” Joseph said. “It’s not you, it’s the opera. I…I like accompanying you. I’d rather talk to you than anyone.”

“I’m afraid I can’t accept that compliment. You barely know anyone else to compare me to,” John said.

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t true,” Joseph said with a shrug. He took a drink. “That’s real nice stuff. Bourbon they used to give us at the Slide was rough as hell.”

He licked his bottom lip delicately, savouring it. John felt himself grow warm at the sight.

“Well I am not the bartender at the Slide,” he said. “So that’s the last drink you’ll have from me this evening.” And possibly the last drink he himself should have.

“Not even champagne later?” Joseph said, tilting his head to the side, wheedling. “It’s the _opera_ , Mr Moore. No one can get through it without champagne.”

John couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh very well,” he said. “One glass, and you don’t deserve it.”

“It’ll console me when we get to the part where everyone dies,” Joseph said.

“How do you know everyone dies?” John said.

“It’s the _opera_ , Mr Moore,” Joseph said again with a cheeky smile, and drained his glass.

**Joseph**

He’d snuck a little more bourbon when Mr Moore had left the room to find his gloves and hat, and was now feeling warm and mellow. Mr Moore hadn’t said anything when Joseph had sat carelessly next to him in the cab, and now their legs were nudging together with every jolt and rumble of the carriage. The press of Mr Moore’s warm thigh against his own was making him pathetically happy, and even more pathetically aroused. He shifted a little in case this was becoming obvious, but Mr Moore only carried on chatting idly, filling every silence with words.

They mingled with the crowd on arrival, Mr Moore swiftly snatching up a couple of glasses of champagne for them as they arrived.

For once Joseph felt quite at ease in this company. He looked just as immaculate as anyone else, and after years of practice could sound like everyone else too.

At least there were no damned women hanging around Mr Moore for once. Joseph was tired of dealing with them. He had found that sharing a few details of his ordeal at Beecham’s hands seemed to send them running – not even anything too gruesome either. He’d just have to mention that Beecham was stripped naked the whole time, or that he kept a jar of eyeballs, or that Mr Moore had helped the police by sketching all the dead children, and that would be enough. “I have terrible nightmares,” Joseph would confide, looking at them intensely. “Probably always will. But Mr Moore cares for me.” They’d look at him like he was an escaped lunatic and leave as soon as politeness allowed.

Not tonight though – just some florid man with a cigar, barking at Mr Moore. Joseph’s attention drifted and he slowly became aware he was being stared at.

The person staring was about his own age, or maybe a year or two older. He lounged against the wall nearest Joseph, his blonde hair combed back from an angular, handsome face. He took a long draw of his cigarette and pushed himself away from the wall with an elbow.

Joseph watched him approach. 

“You’re new,” the stranger drawled. “Where have you come from?”

“I’m with Mr John Moore,” Joseph said.

“Oh,” the stranger said, glancing over at Mr Moore and back to Joseph and quirking an eyebrow. “The artist. Like that, is it?”

Joseph smiled noncommittally. “I have no idea what you mean,” he said. “I’m his ward.”

“That’s what they all say,” he said, so archly that Joseph laughed.

The man smiled and put his cigarette out, then held out his hand. “James Marshall,” he said.

“Joseph,” Joseph said, taking it. James held it a little longer than necessary before releasing him and reaching into his jacket for his cigarette case. He opened it with a practiced hand, offering it to Joseph.

Joseph took one. James offered a light too, and Joseph leaned forward to use it, raising his eyes slowly to James’ as he sucked on the filter. Hadn’t quite forgotten all his old tricks. James gave him a slow smile, eyes lingering on Joseph’s mouth.

The theatre bell rang out and Joseph looked around for Mr Moore so they could take their seats.

“Do you have a box?” James asked.

“Mr Moore has one,” Joseph said, finishing his champagne. He could see James looking at his throat as he swallowed and felt a little thrill from it.

“How very lovely for you,” James said. “Perhaps you can tell me what the view was like in the interval.”

“I’ll look out for you,” Joseph said.

**John**

Joseph was for once watching the stage with a rapt attention which was quite charming. He sat at the very edge of the box, and it gave John ample opportunity to examine his profile before the lights dimmed. It was the artist in him, he told himself. Joseph’s proportions were very pleasing to the eye.

Joseph shifted forward suddenly, as though seeing something. John peered over the edge of the box to the dress circle below.

He saw a handsome young man looking up at Joseph, lifting a hand in recognition. John’s eyes snapped back to Joseph who had lifted a hand in reply. He was smiling.

John sat back, startled. The young man was familiar – one of the Four Hundred, most likely – but John didn’t know him. Joseph certainly seemed to though. It was nothing, John told himself. An acquaintance from the tennis club perhaps. But he began to feel that familiar lurch of worry and jealousy build within him.

By the time the interval arrived, John was in a ferment.

“I think I’ll stretch my legs Mr Moore,” Joseph said, blue eyes innocent.

“What a good idea. I’ll join you,” John said, standing. Joseph looked perturbed for a moment, then nodded.

“A lemonade?” John said as they reached the foyer.

“Oh, sure,” Joseph said, looking over John’s head. “I just have to say hello to someone for a moment.”

“Well, alright, I…” John began, but Joseph had already moved away.

John whirled around to see Joseph join his friend, who was smiling and handing him a glass. They chatted together instantly, heads close together, before moving away a little further.

John needed a drink – a strong one. He waved a waiter over, ordering a brandy. Then he lit a cigarette and watched Joseph.

He tried to pretend that he was observing two people he’d never seen before. What could he see? Two handsome young men at the opera, dressed to the nines and sharing a drink. Nothing whatsoever to be concerned about. But that had been always what he’d thought about his brother’s acquaintances and look where that had led. Drugs, debauchery and drowning.

“Sir?” The waiter had returned with his drink and he took it with a tight smile and a nod. Throwing it back quickly, he grimaced. No, there was nothing wrong with Joseph having a small flirtation with a boy, he told himself. He and Laszlo had talked about the possibility that Joseph would be that way inclined, given the choice. And a young man his own age was surely better than…well, better than other possibilities. Someone who might take advantage of him or lead him into worse vices than whoring.

He looked at them again as he finished his cigarette. They were merely talking, for heaven’s sake. Joseph’s face was lit up with amusement as the other boy spoke, waving his hands around dramatically. If he didn’t know Joseph he wouldn’t even realise that it was a flirtation at all.

But he did know Joseph, and he knew that expression on his face only too well.

_Because that’s usually the way he looks at you._

The bell for the second Act rang out, and John realised that he wanted to leave, right there and then. He extinguished his cigarette and strode over to them.

The blonde boy gave John a sweeping look from head to toe from beneath his lashes. Superior little shit, John thought venomously.

“Joseph, I’m afraid I wish to leave,” he said, turning so that he couldn’t see the boy’s face.

“Is something the matter, Mr Moore?” Joseph said, standing up straight.

“I have merely found today a little more tiring than I realised,” John said.

“My father is the same way,” the blonde boy said. “He’d rather be at home by the fire than gadding about with the young people he says. But sir, your ward is welcome to share a carriage home with me if he would like to stay.”

Joseph darted him a look, then looked back at John. “I…don’t think…”

“You are very enamoured of the opera all of a sudden Joseph,” John said, not able to keep the edge out of his voice. He looked steadily at Joseph’s companion, daring him to speak again.

The boy looked away first. He slipped his hand into his pocket, bringing out a card.

“Here, Joseph,” he said, making a great show of pressing it into Joseph’s palm. “Call on me some time. And…” he leaned a little closer to Joseph’s ear, though still spoke loudly enough to be heard by John. “If you ever want to watch the opera all the way through, I like to stay to the very _very_ end.”

The bell rang out again and the blonde boy smiled at Joseph and turned to leave. Joseph watched him go.

“Come along,” John said abruptly, turning away and willing Joseph to follow him. The familiar poison of jealousy and humiliation was coursing through him. Damn that boy for making John feel like a pathetic old man. He was merely protecting his ward, for God’s sake.

He hailed a cab easily from outside and they travelled home in silence, John unable to explain to himself or to Joseph what had caused their abrupt departure. He could see Joseph shooting him nervous looks. The buzz from the champagne and brandy was fading fast and he felt angry and foolish. All he wanted to do was get home and pour another drink, and yet that was the last thing he should do.

Flinging the door of the cab open he stormed into the house, Joseph following. He headed straight back to his study.

“Mr Moore, stop,” Joseph said as soon as they were alone, putting a hand on John’s shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“Are you angry about James?” Joseph said.

“That’s his name is it?” John said pettily, busying himself with the decanter.

“James Marshall,” Joseph said. “From one of the good families. You know. You said I should make more friends my own age. You said that, _today_.”

“That didn’t look quite like friendship to me,” John said, in a prissy way that made him want to slap himself. “In fact it looked like quite a lot more than that.”

“Yeah, well. You know me,” Joseph said, eyes darkening with anger. “Nothing but a whore.”

“You know very well that’s not what I meant,” John snapped back. “I have nothing against a…a flirtation if that is the way you are inclined. But you must be careful. You don’t know him, or what he might be like. What vices he has.”

“Yes, that’s the way I’m inclined,” Joseph said, voice rising. “And I didn’t do nothing…”

“Anything.”

“ _Anything_ to shame you, Mr Moore. We were just talking. And even if it was more, what does it matter? I’m no virgin and he’s old enough to know his mind. Am I just supposed to never do anything the rest of my life?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” John said, though there was nothing ridiculous about Joseph’s question at all. What _was_ he supposed to do, after all? “I’m merely trying to protect you. My brother…”

“I’m not your brother. I wish I was sometimes – sounds like he got more freedom than I do,” Joseph said bitterly.

“I’ve already had to save your life once, I do not intend to have to do it again!”

“You won’t have to. I just want…I need some companionship Mr Moore. I’m seventeen,” said Joseph.

John’s heart leapt into his throat. For god’s sake, what was wrong with him.

“I’m sorry Joseph,” he said. He crossed the room and took Joseph by the shoulders. “I’m being impossible. I’m tired and I shouldn’t have had a drink and then taken it out on you. I worry.”

“You don’t need to treat me like such a child,” Joseph said, more quietly, looking deep into John’s eyes. “I haven’t been a child for a real long time. I can protect you too, you know.”

John found he couldn’t look away.

“You’re right,” he said, releasing Joseph’s shoulders. “You are absolutely right. Come, sit down with me.”

They sat by the fire and John rang for some supper. Joseph lounged in an armchair the way only a seventeen year old could, his legs impossibly long. He had run his hands through his hair until his curls stood up and had yanked off his collar and tie. His shirt had fallen open and he looked, in truth, disturbingly dishevelled. John wanted quite desperately to draw him.

“May I make a sketch?” he said.

Joseph nodded and looked pleased. “You haven’t drawn me for a long time, Mr Moore,” he said.

“I think, in light of our conversation,” he said. “That you should call me John from now on.”

Joseph’s face lit up. “For real Mr…um…John?”

“For real,” John said, unable to help smiling back. He reached for one of the sketchpads which littered the room and flipped to a clean page. Joseph settled back and let his gaze drift to the fire, the ghost of a pleased smile still on his face.

As he drew, John found himself thinking about what Joseph would have done if he had accepted James Marshalls’ offer to deliver him home. Would he have kissed the boy? More than that?

 _I’m no virgin_.

More than that. What if Joseph had taken the boy to John’s opera box after he’d left? Under cover of darkness, what might they have done together?

Hot suddenly, John pulled his own collar and tie off.

Joseph watched him idly. “James thought you and me were, y’know,” he said.

“We were…?” John said, a little distracted by getting the curve of Joseph’s upper lip.

“More than guardian and ward,” Joseph said. John glanced up at him.

“And what did you tell him?” he demanded.

“What do you think I told him?” Joseph said, teasing.

“I hope you set him straight immediately,” John said, his stomach turning over. “My reputation is bad enough.”

“You’re an artist and you’re not married. I guess people talk,” Joseph said like it was nothing.

“No one has ever insinuated any such thing to me,” John blustered. “If people were saying…why I would have thought Laszlo or Sara might have…”

“It’s no big deal,” Joseph said. “If anyone says anything direct to me, I’ll just tell them.”

“What will you tell them?” John said, his voice strained.

“That there’s nothing between us,” Joseph said, pillowing an arm behind his head. “Nothing at all.”

His shirt pulled out from his waistband and John saw a narrow strip of skin.

John looked away quickly, back to his sketch. “I should get married,” he said. He should. He should have done years ago.

“Who would have you John Moore,” Joseph said with a small smile.

**Joseph**

The fear had got a lot better over the years. It didn’t bother him hardly at all during the day, and even most nights, these days. But sometimes…sometimes he could just feel it coming.

It had started with the lace curtain at his window blowing out a little in the breeze. Just that tiny movement had sent his heart racing. He hadn’t opened it, had he? No. He knew Annabelle always opened it when she laid the fire and turned down the bed though, just a crack. Taking a deep breath, he’d banged the window shut. He was fine, it was fine. He was tired from the opera and the champagne the night before, that was all.

But that feeling, that little edge of panic had risen up and stayed with him.

He’d taken a bath. Mr Moore had refitted the bathroom after his grandmother had passed with all modern conveniences. Joseph couldn’t ever get over how fancy it felt to turn the taps and have hot water just run out of them. But as he’d been drying himself he’d turned quickly, and his foot had squeaked on the floor tile.

He’d had to sit down fast, his ears ringing. He put his hands over his face. _He wasn’t at the baths, he was here, he was safe._ But he could hear it so clearly, the sound of Harry’s body catching on the tile as John Beecham kneeled over him, cutting him up. The horrible squeak as his bare skin pulled against tiles made tacky with blood.

 _Son of a bitch_. He pressed his hands to his eyes, trying to will the panic away.

It had worked long enough for him to fall asleep that night. But not enough to stop his nightmare.

He was running, he was always running, sliding in blood, doors not opening, the thud thud of John Beecham’s feet behind him. He could never run fast enough in his dreams; it was like he was caught in molasses. And Beecham always caught him.

This time Beecham was naked, mumbling the terrifying nonsense he always did.

“He asked for you,” Scotch Ann said suddenly from behind Joseph.

Joseph looked at her, terrified. They were in the Golden Rule. How? He tried to tell her no, no.

“Go on then, see to him,” she said, folding her arms. “He’s paid for your mouth.”

 _No,_ Joseph tried to say, but all that came out was a rasp. _He’s going to kill me._

“On your knees,” Ann said, shoving him down.

Blood washed around his knees, splashing onto his dress. Beecham leaned in, pressing his body against him.

“Aren’t you a pretty little kitten,” Beecham said, and lifted his knife.

Joseph screamed himself awake.

He wasn’t in his room. “No,” he moaned in horror. Where was he?

“Joseph?” A light came on behind him.

Joseph turned to see Mr Moore standing in the doorway of his bedroom. Joseph let out a relieved sob. He was in the hallway upstairs; he was at home.

Mr Moore was at his side in two steps, wrapping arms around him. “You were sleepwalking again. You’re alright, you’re safe,” he said, as Joseph leaned against him his whole body shaking.

“Mr Moore, I…” Joseph said. He gave way to tears.

“It’s alright Joseph. Take it easy. Come in here, it’s cold out in the hall.”

Mr Moore steered him into his bedroom, still holding him tightly.

He settled Joseph on his bed, his back against the pillows. Joseph couldn’t seem to stop trembling.

“I’ll get you some tea,” Mr Moore said.

“Don’t,” Joseph croaked. “Don’t leave me.”

Mr Moore looked at him for a moment, then gave a small nod. “Very well, but I am pouring us both a brandy,” he said.

Joseph nodded back, pressing his hands between his knees. He took some deep breaths the way Dr Kriezler had taught him to all those years back.

He heard Mr Moore come back into the room, and felt his weight as he sat near him on the bed. A warm hand on his back and then a heavy glass was pushed into his hand. He held it gratefully, glancing up at Mr Moore.

He took a sip and it burned like heaven all the way down his throat. He’d always liked the feel of it – a little too much probably. He gulped at the glass again, feeling the peace spread through every limb.

“Was it the same nightmare?” Mr Moore asked gently.

“Yeah, almost,” Joseph said. “Scotch Ann was there. I was in that basement, you know? At The Golden Rule. So hot you feel like you’re being smothered, and that was without the guy on top of you.”

Mr Moore flinched. “You dreamed you were working? Not Beecham this time?”

“He was there. Ann was telling me he was a customer. She told me to get on and suck him like I was paid to,” Joseph said, and there was something about Mr Moore’s discomfort at this that he liked for some reason. He carried on.

“That was weird because Beecham never did want that usually. Least, that’s not what Fatima said. She said that he liked to be the one down on his knees, you know? That was why she liked him so much. He wanted her to feel good too.”

Mr Moore was dark red and looking anywhere but at Joseph. He said nothing.

“That didn’t happen often, let me tell you,” Joseph said, the brandy making him bold. “Only remember one or two customers who cared what I liked. Usually they were happier if I didn’t like it.”

“You were just a child,” Mr Moore burst out.

“Yes,” Joseph said, and drained his glass. “Sure I was.”

Mr Moore took it from him. “How do you feel?” he said gently, changing the subject.

“Better,” Joseph said. “Still a bit…you know.” They both knew that Joseph often had a second round of nightmares straight after the first and would feel nervy for days. But they also knew that Joseph hated to talk about it.

Mr Moore nodded. “Stay right there, right where you are,” he said.

Joseph felt almost tearful again at this. He could smell Mr Moore’s cologne on the pillow he lay against.

“You mean I should sleep here?” he said. He hadn’t ever done that after nightmares. Mr Moore had always taken him back to his own room and sat with him there.

“If you’re comfortable,” Mr Moore said in a low voice. “I won’t leave your side.”

“I’m comfortable,” Joseph said, nestling further into the pillows and Mr Moore’s scent. “I don’t need anything but you.”

**John**

Well this had been a stupid thing to do.

Joseph was fast asleep in his bed, long limbed and tangled in the sheets, wearing only a pair of cotton drawers, and John could not stop looking at him.

Joseph had managed to drag most of the bedclothes off himself with his foot, and John was at his leisure to see the results of all the tennis and horse-riding lessons he had paid for. Joseph most assuredly did not have the body of a child any longer.

John knew there was something twisted about himself. How he was aroused by shame and jealousy. Now he was looking at Joseph as though he’d never seen him before, despite the boy growing to a man under his very nose. It had been a long time since he’d had any kind of brotherly feeling towards his ward. No, he knew what he felt. And he would have to do whatever it took to crush that feeling.

He should have married years ago of course. But there had been all his feelings over his broken engagement to Julia, and then…it was strange how off-putting Joseph could be to any women who showed an interest in John. The poor boy didn’t mean to do it, but he seemed compelled to share lurid details of his kidnap and rescue from Beecham any time there was a lady in John’s company. A longing for a motherly ear, perhaps. He’d tried to provide that for Joseph, tried to be everything to him. And now that feeling of responsibility had turned to this perverted want.

He should leave and go to Joseph’s bed. That would be the sensible and responsible thing to do. But he had promised Joseph, and there was still a chance he might wake up again.

And so he sat, and looked.

John watched the firelight play over the dips and hollows of Joseph’s throat and chest. Then he pulled open a drawer on his dresser and took out a small sketchbook. A very private sketchbook.

If he was to keep his deviancy away from Joseph then he’d have to channel it into this.

**Joseph**

Joseph woke at first light.

He hadn’t dreamed again. He felt shaky and a little unsettled but alright. Stretching, he looked over at John. 

He was fast asleep in the chair, mouth slightly open, his jaw darkened with stubble. Joseph wanted to run his thumb along his lower lip. He imagined waking to see next to him, being able to slot himself against him, feeling the scrub of his chest hair against him, breathing him in. _Maybe next time_. John was starting to realise, he knew he was. He’d get that it only needed to be the two of them, always.

Sitting up, he turned off the lamp that was still burning and got out of bed. John stirred a little, shifting in his sleep, and a book slid out of his lap and landed open at Joseph’s feet.

Curiously he picked it up, smoothing the pages. It had fallen open at a small sketch of a man playing tennis. He flipped the page. Another of the same, the man in a different pose. Joseph felt breathless with jealousy. He flipped again.

In the third sketch the man had turned around. _It was him._ Heart racing Joseph turned another page. Here he was sitting in the garden, legs outstretched and eyes closed, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up. Another of him bent over his desk, frowning at his lesson.

Four small sketches of Joseph sprawled on the armchair in John’s study, his shirt open at the throat. Joseph in profile, on horse back, lying on his stomach on the hearthrug reading the newspaper. Dozens more.

The last pages were Joseph asleep on John’s bed, the bedclothes tangled around one leg. He hadn’t been naked of course, but the way John had sketched made it look that way. There was page after page of him, on his back and on his side as he moved around in sleep. A study of the way his hand lay against the muscle of his stomach. His throat and collar bones. A page of just his mouth. Joseph traced his finger around his own lips.

“What are you doing?” John demanded.

“John,” Joseph said, unable to help smiling. “Your book.” He held it out to him.

John blanched. “Did you look at this?” he said, snatching it.

“It was open,” Joseph said, nodding. His heart was full. “Is that truly how I look to you?”

An expression of humiliation and anger fought its way across John’s face.

“You had no business looking at it. And it is mere anatomical study, I haven’t made you look like anything that you aren’t.”

“You certainly have studied my anatomy,” Joseph said, his happiness ebbing away.

“For God’s sake Joseph, you know very well that an artist makes sketches such as these. It means nothing.”

Joseph felt a spark of temper. “I know you made me look beautiful,” he said. “I’m not blind. Why can’t you just admit…” He looked at John hopelessly. “You are so _stupid_ , John Moore.”

“I have to go,” said John, gathering up the book and his pencils. He shot a look at Joseph. “This is private. Please do not look at it again.”

“Don’t have to, I can just look in a mirror,” Joseph shot back. John stormed out.

Joseph didn’t see him for the rest of the day. He studied, and ate lunch alone, then messed in the garden for a while dead-heading late roses, before coming back indoors and eating dinner alone too.

Bored, he strolled down to visit Annabelle in the kitchen and found her with her feet up by the fire enjoying a rest.

“And what are you wanting me for, young Joseph,” she said, not moving. For though she called herself Annabelle and affected a French accent in the parlour, in the kitchen she was Aisling and was as Irish as they came.

“Nothing,” he said, sitting down at the table and sticking his finger in some pie filling. Aisling threw a duster at him.

“Leave it alone. There’s one baked in the larder if you need feeding again, you wee gannet,” she said.

Joseph sucked his finger clean and threw the duster back to her.

“You know where Mr Moore is?” he said.

“He got out of your sight for a moment, has he?” Aisling chuckled. “Where does a gentleman usually go of an evening, all alone? You should bloody know.”

“Oh. I thought he didn’t do that anymore,” Joseph said. Aisling had told him once, over whiskey-filled teacups, all about how Mr Moore used to visit her sister who worked in one of the whore houses in Midtown.

“He was a fine customer, my sister says,” Aisling had told him. “You’d to do a bit of play-acting twas all. Pretend you were his fiancé leaving him for another man, make him jealous. Made him all…” she’d demonstrated with a rude gesture.

Joseph had thought about that a whole lot.

“Maureen’s not seen him in a long while,” Aisling said now, stirring the fire. “He’d given up all that you know. The drinking and the hooring. I thought he was showing you an example.”

“I am an innocent it’s true,” Joseph said. Aisling, who knew the whole of Joseph’s past, snorted.

“Aye, so you are,” she said. She stood up with a groan and rolled her sleeves back up. “You should go out yourself, have some fun without Mr Moore for once.”

“Do you know where he was going?” Joseph asked.

Aisling rolled her eyes. “I heard him tell the cabby to take him to Bleeker Street. Make your own conclusion from that.”

**John**

John was drunk. Too damn drunk to be here, but too drunk to stop himself either.

He wouldn’t buy a boy, that wasn’t what he wanted. But if he could find another man there, someone he could sate this need with, then that was the best he could do.

He made his way through the clientele of the Slide, and boys gave him hot, flirtatious looks as he passed. He got to the bar, got a drink, took a table. His head spun a little. Christ, if he could only get Joseph’s face out of his head. To think he’d seen the damned sketchbook! But he would stick to his explanation. He would stop this _nonsense._

“Hey handsome.” a boy slid into the chair next to him. He was taller than John and there was a hint of dark stubble beneath the paint on his face. “I’m Daisy.”

“I’m not looking for…” John gestured at his painted face and the wig. The boy smiled.

“Well it all comes off, honey,” he said, taking hold of his wig and pulling it aside. “All of it.”

His hair was dark and wavy under the wig, a little like Joseph’s. His eyes weren’t as blue, but his lips were as full and painted a rosy pink.

“How old are you?” John said.

“How old do you want me to be?”

John made an impatient noise.

“Old enough,” the boy said, a little sulkily. “You looking for something younger?”

John shook his head. Daisy’s dress was slipping off a shoulder, and John found himself pulling it back up for him.

“A gentleman,” Daisy said with another smile. He leaned in close. “Buy a girl some champagne?”

Whatever it was they sold at the Slide it wasn’t champagne, but John nodded.

“And what can I do for you in return?” Daisy said. “You know the deal. But…” He leaned in and whispered. “You slip me a little extra, you can do whatever you like to me.” He took John’s hand and ran it up his thigh under his skirt.

John could see bruises on the boy’s upper arm, and what looked like a whip mark on his thigh above his stocking.

“You’re hurt,” John said stupidly.

“I like it,” Daisy said. John’s mouth dried. This sort of thing had never been part of what aroused him, though Laszlo assured him it was a very common desire. He wondered if this would have been Joseph’s fate as he got older – offering wilder things to rougher men. Would he have claimed to like it? Maybe he did like it. He took a shuddering breath trying to blank out the image of Joseph fucking like this.

“Um,” he said. “Excuse me, I’m sorry. I’ll…I’ll get you that champagne.”

He moved towards the bar unsteadily, his head pounding. As he waited for the bartender his eye glanced across the crowd. Most of the clientele were pretty far gone – it was late – and there were several rowdy tables singing along with the evening’s entertainer, a tall, beautiful man in an evening gown.

And then the door opened and Joseph came in.

John froze in horror. Had he followed him? But no – he’d left hours ago while Joseph had still been outside in the garden. So then Joseph was here for his own amusement. Or was he…had he been coming here all along?

Their eyes met and Joseph stopped still. John raised a hand and then let it drop. Joseph shoved his way through the crowd towards him.

“Joseph,” John said.

“I’ve been looking for you. What the hell are you doing here?” Joseph said.

“This one’s taken,” said a voice behind John. His companion had joined them. “Why don’t you run away and find your own fun.”

Joseph’s eyes widened. “Maxie?” he said. “That you?”

“My God it’s sweet little Bernadette,” Maxie said a little cattily. “You disappeared off the face of the damn earth. Honestly, I thought you were dead.”

“Well you thought wrong,” Joseph said. “This is my guardian.”

“Didn’t you land on your fairy feet. Or your back I guess,” Maxie said. “Lucky for some.”

“Yeah, I’m real lucky,” Joseph said, staring right at John.

John handed the bottle of champagne to Maxie. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“I’m not,” Maxie said with a wink, and made off with the bottle.

John looked at his ward who was looking back at him, blue eyes furious.

“How did you find me?” he asked weakly.

“You come here a lot?” asked Joseph, ignoring his question. “Is this…is this a thing you do?”

“No,” John said. “I shouldn’t be here. I didn’t mean to come here.”

“Sometimes I can’t figure out if you believe the lies you tell.”

“I am not telling you lies,” said John, stung.

“Why don’t you just admit you want me?”

John felt as though a sledgehammer had been swung into his stomach.

“Why would you go with a boy from here, and not me? Why?” Joseph said. “They don’t want you, you’re just paying them to do it. I’d do anything with you. I don’t get it, I don’t. I’m right here. I’m right _here_.”

“Joseph, please,” John said, his voice hoarse.

“Don’t think I don’t know you want to do things with me. I’m not an idiot. It was my fucking job for years to know that,” Joseph said, more angry than John had ever seen him.

“I don’t,” John said desperately. “You’re my ward.”

“Liar,” said Joseph, and he was so close to John suddenly. John was frozen in place. He could see the curve of Joseph’s full mouth and the softness in his eyes as he looked back at him.

John took a breath, and Joseph leaned forward and kissed him.

Joseph kissed with an assurance that took John’s breath away. He found himself pushed back against the bar, Joseph’s hands on his waist, his sweet, full lips parting against John’s. John thought of all the men who had come before him who Joseph had learned this from and felt the familiar jag of jealousy and horror and inadequacy uncoil inside him. Arousing him. He moaned.

“You liked that,” Joseph breathed.

“Got rooms free in the back, ladies,” the bartender said, tapping John on the shoulder. John broke away from Joseph.

“No,” he said. “No, that’s not necessary.” He looked at Joseph who was blinking at him, a hand at his reddened lips.

“No,” agreed Joseph. “We can just go home, can’t we John?”

“I have to go,” John said. He fumbled inside his jacket then pushed a fold of bills at Joseph. “Get home safe. Take a cab. I have to…go.”

“No,” said Joseph taking his arm. “You’re not leaving me here.”

John didn’t want to cause more of a scene than they were already causing. He pushed through the crowd into the filthy street, Joseph following. Their silent cab ride home left John with his panicked thoughts.

“So,” Joseph banged the front door shut behind them. He shrugged off his coat.

“We can discuss this in the morning,” John said, trying to retain some semblance of authority.

“There’s nothing to discuss,” Joseph said. “I know what I want. I like fucking other men. I like it. And I’d do it with you, I’d do it for free, and you know it. You _know_ it. You know I lie there at night thinking about you. You know every time you touch me, I get hard.”

“Joseph,” John said, horrified. “I’m not like…I never wanted to be…to use you like…”

“But you’re _not_ like them,” Joseph said.

“If I take you to bed then I will be,” John said. “If I take you to my bed then I’ll become everything I’ve tried not to be.”

“What about what I want you to be?” Joseph said.

“How can you want this - after the things you have suffered, Joseph,” John began. “I didn’t save you to do this to you.”

“Well this is it, this is me. This is what you saved,” Joseph said, his eyes sparkling with tears. “And my feelings are as real as anyone else’s. You know how you _are_ like those other men? You keep telling me I don’t know my own mind. That my yes means no and my no means yes. It’s cruel.”

He shoved past John, making him stagger, and disappeared to his room.

**Joseph**

Joseph barely spoke to John for the next couple of weeks after that.

He called on James instead, who was surprised but pleased. They drifted into seeing each other almost every day, strolling in the park, going to lunch or to the ballet in the evening. They tried kissing the first time they went out - Joseph getting James hitched up against a tree, much to James’ delight - but there was no real spark in it, and they relapsed into friendship.

If they weren’t together, then they were on the telephone. He and James had several conversations a day about not an awful lot and the only times Joseph really saw John was when he came pointedly to the door of his study to close it against the noise.

They once spent an afternoon in the garden under the pergola, giggling over a quite filthy publication James had purchased from a very special bookstore. Joseph had glanced up to see John watching them from a window.

“Daddy doesn’t look very happy with you, Joseph,” James drawled.

“Well I’m not very happy with him,” Joseph said. James chuckled.

“And am I a little pawn in this game?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“A girl has to do what a girl has to do,” Joseph said.

“Well you be careful. He looks like he wants to give you a spanking.”

“If only,” Joseph said.

It took James calling Joseph three consecutive times on the telephone to break John in the end. He stormed into the hallway, dragged the receiver from Joseph’s hand and marched him into his study, slamming the door behind them.

“What do you mean by making this unholy racket all hours of the day?” he demanded.

“I was only speaking to James,” Joseph said, leaning insolently against John’s desk.

“I think you’ve been seeing entirely too much of him,” John said.

“Well I’m not seeing him if I’m on the telephone, am I,” Joseph retorted.

“That is quite enough. I forbid you to see him for the rest of this week.” John was at his most pompous and outraged.

Joseph felt jubilant. “You’re jealous,” he said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” John said. He sat down heavily in an armchair. “I am merely concerned.”

“Concerned why? We don’t do anything you wouldn’t,” Joseph said, provokingly. 

“Are you mocking me?” John said.

Joseph shrugged and smiled.

“It was just at this age that my brother found himself led astray,” John said, his voice rising. “I will not sit by and see the same happen to you.”

“I’m not like your brother,” Joseph said. He pushed away from the edge of the desk and moved closer to John. “Unless you had a secret sketchbook of him too. Did you?"

John swallowed and said nothing.

"Did he lie in bed and touch himself, imagining it was you? Did you go out to fairy bars looking for boys to kiss who looked like him? Did he have to go out and find himself someone else, because you wouldn’t touch him and it was driving him crazy?”

John flushed and looked away. “Stop it. Stop it now. I am talking about you and James.”

“Are you scared I like him more than I like you?” Joseph said, an edge to his voice and John’s gaze snapped onto his. “Would that upset you?”

He moved closer still.

“If he had replaced you in my affection?” Joseph said. He kneeled in front of John watching his reaction carefully. He ran his hands up John’s thighs, skin whispering over the fine cotton.

“I’m sorry John, I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he said, trying to look sorrowful. “I just love the way he touches me.”

Joseph saw the arousal hit John’s eyes. He breathed out unsteadily.

“How...how does he touch you?” he said, and Joseph knew his trick had worked.

“He starts with my mouth, pushes his tongue right in,” Joseph said, kneeling up and kissing John. He kissed him for a while, languorously. “And then he likes to undress me.”

John watched as Joseph stood, a dazed expression on his face. Joseph slipped out of his clothes quickly and stood naked in the firelight in front of his guardian.

“And then?” John said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“And then sometimes he teases me. He tells me how much harder he must get than you. Or how quickly he can fuck me again after we’ve just finished fucking. He thinks you’re old. He thinks I won’t want you any more now I’ve had him.”

Joseph watched John closely as each one of these strikes hit home.

“And is he right?” John asked hoarsely.

He put a hand between John’s legs and found him rock hard.

“Maybe,” Joseph said, and enjoyed the moan that brought forth. “I’ll try you out and see what I think.”

“And what if I don’t compare?” John said.

“You’ll just have to try your very best, won’t you?” Joseph said and dragged John’s pants open with a practiced hand.

John made a move towards helping but Joseph stopped him. “I only need your cock,” he said, sliding a hand into John’s pants and wrapping his hand around his erection. He drew it out, flushed dark and already wet with arousal.

John closed his eyes, arching up into Joseph’s hand. Joseph released him.

“Stay there,” he said.

John watched him as he pulled open a drawer, finding a small bottle of oil and bringing it over. Joseph dripped the oil over John’s cock, rubbing it round the head with his thumb.

“You ever needed to do this before?” Joseph said. “Bet you’ve only ever been with a girl.”

John’s chest was rising and falling. Joseph oiled himself a little, but with John oiled and ready he’d hardly need it. He straddled him.

John made a helpless moaning noise as Joseph took hold of his cock and began to sink onto it. It had been a hell of a long time and it took him a moment to relax around John’s thickness but then he was there, fully seated, with John panting beneath him like he was about to finish any second.

“What…what else,” John managed, his voice almost a whisper.

“James would fuck me so deep,” Joseph said, grinding down a little. “So deep and hard. He was bigger than you too.”

John gave a little pained groan at his, jerking his hips upwards.

“Yes, like that. But harder,” Joseph said. He began rising and falling on John’s cock, fucking himself.

John took hold of his hips and thrust up so hard Joseph whimpered. “Like that? That how he does it?”

“Yes,” Joseph managed. And oh it felt so good. “Like that. Oh do it hard Mr Moore, I want it.”

And then all Joseph could do was hold on and take it. He could feel John so deep inside him, battering him, and God, Joseph had worked him up _good_. He was crying out helplessly, his own cock slapping up against his stomach, and fuck he was there, it was too good, too fast, he was finished.

“Oh that’s it sweetheart, oh Joseph my God,” John groaned, his hips in a frenzy. Joseph shot all over John’s shirt before he could help it and that would have earned him a hard slap from a customer in the past, but John just moaned his name again and spend hard, his legs shaking.

Joseph looked down at John, not quite ready to move their bodies apart. He loved the sweat and the mess of the aftermath, but wondered if it would horrify John. Would he push him away again in his shame and guilt? He couldn’t bear to think of it.

“Joseph,” John whispered, sinking his hands into Joseph’s hair and pulling him down for a kiss, his cock still buried deep inside him. And Joseph knew then it was going to be alright.

**John**

He could not help peppering Joseph’s hair and face with kisses as the boy blinked himself awake.

“Hello John,” he said, blue eyes sleepy.

“Good morning,” John said. In response, Joseph reached up and kissed him.

John rolled Joseph over onto his back, getting between his legs. The boy looked impossibly lovely with his curls spread on the pillow. His pillow.

“What are you doing?” Joseph asked, a dreamy little smile on his face.

“I am going to fuck you,” John said matter-of-factly, watching as Joseph flushed deep pink at his words. “I’m going to fuck you so hard you that afterwards you won’t remember James Marshall’s name. Even if it takes all day.”

“Well, alright,” Joseph said, winding his long legs around John’s waist. “You better get started then.”

**Joseph**

They were at the opera again that night, but this time Joseph planned to take full advantage of the dark of John’s opera box to show him how much he appreciated his guardian.

“Why it’s John Moore, handsome as ever!” a tall girl with the biggest diamond necklace Joseph had ever seen greeted his guardian.

“I haven’t seen you in an age. Do you remember me? I’m Elise, George Flagler’s younger sister.”

“Why Elise, I wouldn’t have recognised you. You’re all grown up,” John said gallantly. “Please excuse me one moment, I just have to check our coats. This is Joseph, my ward – please wait with him.”

“Hello Joseph,” Elise said as John disappeared out of earshot, her eyes flicking over Joseph from head to foot. “I didn’t know John had a ward.”

“Well, it’s a funny story, Miss Flagler. It all began with the dead boy-whores they kept finding with their eyes gouged out and their organs taken. Mr Moore used to examine the bodies you see,” Joseph began. It was pretty funny watching the lady’s face as he told his tale. He got as far as the eyeballs swimming in the jar when Elise very suddenly found someone else to talk to across the foyer.

“Elise gone?” John said, re-joining Joseph.

“Afraid so,” Joseph said.

“That’s a pity, I would have liked to catch up,” John said, guiding Joseph towards the auditorium with the slightest touch against the small of Joseph’s back. “Just us then.”

“Just us,” Joseph said, and smiled.


End file.
